


Pear-Shaped

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, S&M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:16:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Engineer isn’t as nice as he looks, but he thinks the Scout is exactly as stupid as he looks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pear-Shaped

**Author's Note:**

> "To go pear-shaped: colloquialism-- to go wrong, to go awry, to go **bottom-up**."

The Scout was after him. 

He’d push other people out of the way to sit next to him at dinner, he was always lurking around his workshop, and he’d ask inane questions the Engineer had just answered, just to get his time. 

The Scout was after him, acting like a darn fool, and the poor sonuvagun had no idea how stupid that really was. 

He tried his darnedest to ignore it. When the nosy varmint didn’t seem to catch a hint and decided to up the ante instead, the Engineer tried putting him off. He got up and moved when the Scout took the seat next to him, told him flat-out that if he caught the careless little pissant in his workshop again he’d rewrite his respawn data himself, and steadfastly refused to answer any questions not related directly to a mission. 

But the Scout would not be disuaded and he would not be deterred. He was relentless: “Hey Engie, could you like, replace yer freaky robot hand with… I dunno, somethin’ else? A claw, or like, a Swiss army knife? That’d be cool.” “Yo, Shortstack! Can I try on yer goggles?” “Hey Overalls, if everything is bigger in Texas, how come I’m taller’n you?” “Engie, hey Engie! Y’wanna wrestle?” The rest of the team was starting to notice.

"The boy is lucky you are so even-tempered," the Medic observed. "Do you suppose he looks at you as a sort of father figure?"

The Engineer didn’t think that at all. He also didn’t think he was particularly slow to anger. He was actually fairly quick to anger; he merely took his time formulating a proper retaliatory action.

He’d nearly settled on one when the Scout did something rash.

The Engineer found the bucktoothed runner sitting in the hallway with his back up against the Engineer’s own bedroom door. A quarter flipped over and over his fingers— index to pinky and back again. He looked up when the Engineer’s shadow fell over him. 

"Yo. I gotta talk to ya," he declared.

"Nope. You gotta get your rear end away from my door."

"Only if you’ll talk to me."

"Son, I can think of sixteen separate ways to end your life with that there quarter, and that’s without the use of any other materials available to me at this present time. Don’t test me."

"I ain’t. All’s I ever did is try to be yer friend. How come yer actin’ like this all’a sudden?”

"A ‘friend’ ain’t what you were tryin’ t’be, boy. You an’ I both know that." The Engineer’s jaw was a hard, square line. 

“‘Kay but I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout what I was tryin’ ta be, y’know, out here.”

"You ain’t talkin’ about it at all. I’m through with this, boy. Now you git, or else." He pulled a sleek Colt .45 from the pouch where his PDA usually sat, cocked the hammer, and aimed coolly at the Scout. "Ain’t messin’ around."

The Scout scrambled up, but didn’t leave. The Engineer felt his eye twitch.

"Jeez, Engie, c’mon. I know I’m messin’ with the bull here. I’m prepared f’r the horns."

The Engineer stared the Scout down through his goggles, frowning rigidly.

"Naw, y’ain’t. You don’t know what yer askin’ for."

"Well, why’ncha tell me, Professor?"

The Engineer’s lip twitched, at that. Then, his mouth curled into that battlefield smile of his, and the Scout rubbed his palms on his knickerbockers. Still grinning and showing his gums, the Engineer holstered his gun. He reached past the Scout and opened his own door.

"Why doncha come in an’ set for awhile?" He held the door open, and the Scout shoved his hands into his pockets and stalked into the darkened room. The Engineer closed the door behind himself, and flicked on a light.

The room was comfortable, if Spartan. The bed was made, with a well-worn quilt folded at the foot. Teddy Roosebelt sat on the windowsill, next to a potted plant and a barometer. A few photos sat on the dresser in their frames, and more, loose, lay atop an open letter. A mat, a T-square, a selection of drafting pencils, and a measuring compass lay at right angles to one another on the desk. To their right, on the polished wood, sat a simple gold ring. The Engineer pulled off his goggles and set them next to the little gold band. 

The Scout focused instead on the red marks around the Engineer’s eyes, from where the goggles dug in. 

"So." The Engineer seated himself at his desk, and didn’t offer the Scout a chair. The runner stood, waiting on whatever the Engineer had to say. "Tell me, because, here’s the one thing I can’t figure out— what on God’s green earth gave you the idea that you had some sort of affection for me? What gave you that fool notion? I’m not gonna ask what made you think it was a good idea to try and act on it, because that answer follows from the first. So go on, tell me. Where’d you get such a plumb stupid idea?"

The Scout fidgeted. 

"Out with it!"

"Cripes, okay, Jeez!" He shifted on his feet. "I dunno, I just started noticin’ ya, y’know, the little stuff you do, and also like, how your arms look when yer carryin’ a tool box, or the way your overalls pull across your— uh. Nevermind. But yeah, I just, started, y’know, doin’ that, that is, noticin’ you. An’ the more I saw the more I liked. So. Yeah." 

"Mm-HM. So how is it you think this is gonna go?"

"Well. I d—"

"Don’t say you don’t know," the Engineer snapped, teeth grit. "Give me an answer, boy."

The Scout was tense, but he pressed on. “I figured if you knew what all was goin’ on, you could— uh.” He shrugged. The Engineer’s eyes narrowed. “You could tell me if I had a chance or, or somethin’! I mean jeez yer so dead-set I don’t know what I’m doing, but you ain’t once said you ain’t interested.”

"I believe I threatened to kill you."

"That ain’t the same thing. Hell I’ve known some couples married twenty years’at threaten to kill eachother almost every night. Aintcha never watched the Honeymooners?" 

The Engineer regarded the Scout’s upbringing with distaste. First of all because clearly nobody ever taught the noisy brat any manners, and secondly, if death threats didn’t make him doubt his chances, he wondered what kind of romantic or sexual encounters the weird little greenhorn had suffered thus far.

"I say you don’t know whatcher gettin’ into because you don’t."

"What, messin’ with a married man? Jeezus, Engie. Does the little missus know what else you do when you’re ‘at work’? Like, y’know, killin’ people?” 

"My wife died in childbirth." 

"Oh," the Scout said, without missing a beat, "But then who’s the pretty lady in all them pictures?" 

"My sister-in-law. She looks after my kids when I’m on base." 

"How many kids ya got?"

"You’re getting off topic."

"No I ain’t. Part of this whole thing is’at I wanna know more aboutchu an’ all that. I mean, I’m lookin’ at these pictures, and it looks like the youngest little mini-you is about five, which means your wife died all those years ago, an’ you still keep your weddin’ ring on yer dresser. You still carryin’ a torch for her?" 

"Mistakin’ me for sentimental is a misstep you don’t wanna take, son."

"So what is it, then? What’s this thing you’ve got goin’ on that I don’t know about and you think I won’t understand?"

The Engineer stood, slowly. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. The Scout seemed to shrink back, when the Engineer pinned him in his gaze. When the Engineer held out his hand, palm up, the Scout hesitated before setting his bandaged hand over the Engineer’s coarse fingers.

With a sharp tug, the Engineer unbalanced the Scout, using the runner’s height and slighter frame against him. He threw him against a wall and strode into his personal space, his gait measured, if slightly bowlegged.

The Scout looked dazed. He must have clocked his head. The Engineer tugged him down by the collar and looked into his face, eye to eye. The runner struggled and the Engineer shook him until it stopped. While the Scout attempted to blink past his dizziness, the Engineer brought his lips close to an oversized ear.

"Is this what you wanted, boy?" he growled. The Scout merely growled back, and tried to force the Engineer’s hand out of his shirt. The Engineer switched to his Gunslinger, and no matter what kind of finger strength he’d gotten from baseball, there was no way the Scout was wriggling out of that. 

The Texan shook his quarry once more for good measure, then spun him around, forced his face into the wall. His flesh hand grabbed the Scout’s short hair, dragged his head from side to side.

"This is what you’re askin’ for," he hissed, kicking the Scout’s feet apart. The runner tried to shove away from the wall, tried to elbow the Engineer in the ribs, but the robotic hand clamped down on one bandaged wrist and wrenched the arm into a painful lock.

"Is that how it’s gonna be? I tell you, son, it’s much harder to break a horse than it is to break a man."

The Scout snarled and protested wordlessly, twisting in the Engineer’s hold.

"You want me to get out my spurs? I swear I will."

When the runner writhed against him, the Engineer’s frown deepened. 

"You tryin’ to make me madder, boy?” 

"Maybe I am," the Scout answered, throwing a mean smirk over his shoulder. 

The Engineer paused. His glare was calculating, and cold. 

"C’mon, Engie. Hit me with your best shot."

He was over the Engineer’s knee in seconds, his legs trapped between two denim-clad ones and a pointy elbow digging into his spine. He squirmed but did not break free. 

The first strike shouldn’t have surprised him, but he jolted against the Engineer’s bedsheets. The second one burned into the first, and the next one melted into that one. 

"Should I have you count?"

"Shut the fuck up!" the Scout snapped.

Another loud smack over his smarting backside and he shifted in discomfort.

"That was four, if you need remindin’."

"What makes ya think I’m gonna count, ya f—!" Another strike, this time just under his ass, where it met the firm flesh of his thighs.

"Count, or I’ll just get meaner," the Engineer warned.

"Like how, ya weird old bastard?" the Scout protested, practically spitting.

"Well, for one, I could switch to my other hand.” The Engineer waited with his flesh hand in the air while the Scout wrestled his pride.

"Cripes, okay, five,” he grumbled, finally. 

The next swat hit the top of his ass, just under his iliac crest. 

"Six."

The one after that was barely a centimeter lower, almost right on top of the sixth.

"Seven." The Scout’s breath was a little shallower.

The next one lingered, as the Engineer dug his fingers in. 

"Eight. Couldn’t you switch to the other cheek or something?"

"Aw, would you like that?" the Texan drawled, stroking a finger over the runner’s rough pants. He could feel the heat even through the cloth. 

"Shut the hell UP!" the Scout demanded, renewing his struggles. The Engineer held him fast. 

"Yer gonna hafta ask nicer’n that." He punctuated his statement with a little smack, but it had barely any force behind it, and the Scout glanced back.

"Uh. Was that nine?" he asked, and he was so obviously serious that the Engineer had to laugh. 

"Naw, son, but thanks for askin’. This is nine,” he said, and he drew back and brought his hand down hard. 

Ten, eleven, twelve and thirteen folowed in quick succession, and when the Scout let out the breath he’d been holding, fourteen and fifteen came after that. 

"You ever tried to tack a horse? The difficult ones’ll take a deep breath when they feel you reachin’ for the cinch, so the saddle’ll be loose when they breathe out. They’ll toss their heads when you try to set them in a halter, nevermind a bridle, and they’ll even try to push the bit out with their tongues before ya get ‘em buckled." The Engineer struck him again, almost as an afterthought.

"Six-TEEN," the Scout replied. There was a challenge in his tone. 

Seventeen hit the other cheek, and the Engineer felt the body across his lap relax, but eighteen was right back to where they started and the Scout tensed again. The Engineer swatted him low, and the Scout yelped.

"I think you mean ‘nineteen’," the Engineer warned.

"You just smacked my balls, you asshole!”

"Yes I did. What’s your point?"

"Well that motherfuckin’ hurt!" 

"I imagine it would, yeah. You can’t take any more?"

"I—!" The Scout deflated. He hesitated, and the Engineer could guess that the mouthy kid didn’t know how to react to that. Of course he could take it, but should he? Why? Why not? 

"Well?" the Engineer prompted.

"Nineteen," the Scout answered.

"That’s what I like to hear," the Texan said cheerfully. He even stroked the Scout’s stinging rump a little, and felt the body shift up, and straighten. 

'Ain't that cute,' the Engineer thought. 'He's proud of himself.' 

He hadn’t yet decided if he was counting up to a specific number, but number twenty fell on the less abused cheek, and the Scout sighed. The Engineer figured it was about time to start warming that cheek up as well, and his hand fell loud and heavy five times before a pause.

The Scout’s voice got quieter on each count, but the pitch rose, and his muscles tensed, and when twenty-six struck, quick and sharp, the Scout gasped and choked. The Engineer had to move his legs to be sure, but some minor shifting confirmed his hypothesis:

The Scout was hard. 

The runner glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide, face pallid with a blotchy flush high on his cheeks. 

He knew the Engineer knew.

He swallowed and murmered a quiet, “uh…”

But the Engineer simply brought his hand down again.

"T-twenty seven! Goddamn!" The Scout’s head fell to the sheets again, and he grabbed fistfuls of blanket. The next smack aimed low again and the Scout bucked before he could force out a breathy "Twenty-eight". 

The Engineer felt the Scout wriggling, and realized the upstart hooligan was trying to grind himself into the Engineer’s own denim-wrapped thigh.

Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, and thirty-three were especially brutal, targeting the first cheek, where a bruise was beginning to form, but it took until thirty-six, hot and vicious across the second cheek, before the Scout stopped trying to hump the Engineer’s leg.

"Jeez louise! Ain’tcher arm gettin’ tired?!" the Scout panted between forty and forty-one. 

"Ain’t you ever seen me work, boy? I can do this all day."

At forty-five, the Scout writhed. “Please, Engie!” he whined. “I’m so fuckin’ hard! I need some relief, please!”

The Engineer reached around and fingered the button on the Scout’s knickerbockers. The Scout moaned into the blanket, and shivered when the Engineer’s thick fingers pushed his fly open. He thrust into that broad, rough hand, muttering curses and encouragements, and groaned, shaking down to his bones when those callused fingers pushed his trousers and underwear down to his knees. 

The first strike against his bare ass made him squeak, and the Engineer knew; it burned in a way a flamethower didn’t— dull, aching, deep. Bandaged fingers scrabbled at the blankets through the next few blows, and when the Engineer paused again, the Scout let out a heavy breath, drew in another, held it, swallowed, and breathed out again. His shoulders relaxed.

"Did you lose count?"

"What?"

"You didn’t count out those last few, and I’m wonderin’ if you lost count, and we’ll have to start all over." 

"No!" The Scout looked manic, over his shoulder. "No, that, that was uh—" his eyes widened as the Engineer’s hand twitched, "Forty-nine!" 

The Engineer smiled, thin and bare, and patted the Scout’s rear.

"There’s a good boy," he said, and the Scout settled down again, though the tension remained in his spine, his shoulders. The Engineer stroked the reddened flesh for a moment, enjoying the heat coming off of it, and the way the Scout quivered under his palm. 

The next smack wasn’t nearly so hard as the ones that preceded it, and the Scout mumbled, “Fifty?”, unsure.

So the Engineer set a rhythm on the second cheek, steady as a heartbeat, bringing up a bright redness to match the first, which would soon turn raspberry pink when the bruises came up.

"Engie," the Scout wheezed, "c’mon, can’t you feel this? Jay-zus, Sixty-three! Feels like I’ve been hard for fuckin’ ever. C’mon, man, help me out, why doncha?" He swallowed and tried to find his breath. "Sixty-four!" he added, after a meaningful pause from his captor. 

The Engineer only brought his hand down harder and faster.

"Motherlickin’ Sixty-five! S-sixty, sixty-six! Fuckin’ hell, Engie, please!" 

The Engineer did not relent.

"Augh, FUCK!" the Scout exclaimed. And there it was: the trembling limbs, the distempered breath, his back drawn tight. No doubt about what the Scout had done.

He’d begun to cry.

"Cry all you like, but I raised three boys of my own, son. It won’t affect me none."

Indeed, his pace remained constant. 

"Shut up!" the Scout demanded thickly, hiccuping through tears, "I ain’t cryin’ cuz it hurts! Aw, jeezus, seventy-eight!" 

"Oh no? Praytell, why are you cryin’?”

"I— shit, seventy-nine! I dunno, I just, FUCK! I can’t— EIGHTY, goddammit! Jeezus!" His voice was choked and stilted, wobbly as he tried to hold it all back, and when the Engineer stilled his hand, the Scout sobbed even harder, shoving his face into the blankets and shaking.

The Engineer reached down, brushed his hand along the runner’s quaking stomach, and wrapped his fingers around the Scout’s hot cock. He was still hard, and precum gathered at the tip, and when the Engineer swiped a finger through it, the Scout cried out and his whole body seemed to jump from that point. 

Despite all that, fresh tears still soaked into the blankets. The Scout’s shoulders jittered and his fingers grasped uselessly at the sheets, and his hips snapped hungrily into the Engineer’s hand. He moaned raggedly and coughed and pressed his thighs together. 

"Fuckin’ goddamn, Engie," the Scout muttered into the bedroll. He sniffled, and the Engineer ran a finger up a prominent vein, and felt the Scout’s cock twitch.

"Attaboy," the Engineer encouraged, voice low. He stroked his Gunslinger, sheathed in a leather work glove, over the Scout’s ass, marvelling at the purplish bruises already visible and the way just that made the Scout choke on his breath. His palm stung a little from the repeated impact, but his hands were so callused from tightening bolts and playing guitar, it hardly mattered at all. The Scout, though… Unless he wanted to have an awkward encounter with the Medic, he’d have to bear these bruises until their next mission. He’d be sitting gingerly, walking carefully, maybe even wincing when his trousers rubbed him the wrong way. And the Engineer would watch, and know why. He smacked the Scout’s ass one more time and the runner sobbed with renewed vigor. The leather glove smoothed over the bright flesh, petting the Scout like a spooked animal, as the Engineer sighed quiet words.

The Scout didn’t settle. He choked and cried and bent in on himself, thighs shaking, muscles straining. 

"That’s it, that’s right… Let it all out, c’mon," and he swatted the Scout’s ass once more, just a little tap, really, but the Scout cursed and curled and came, shuddering and howling into the tear-soaked sheets, his nose running and his face and eyes red. 

The Engineer caught the Scout’s release in his broad hand, and hauled the still-twitching body upright with his Gunslinger. 

"There ya go," he rumbled, bringing his hand up to the Scout’s mouth. He licked eagerly, and sucked the Engineer’s thick fingers into his mouth after, probing his tongue between them, nibbling at the webbing. 

"Mmm, God, Engie," he crooned when the Engineer pulled his hand away. He wiped his eyes and his nose and turned a lopsided smile on the other man. "Can’t believe I came from that. And cryin’ too, how fuckin’ embarassin’, right?” He laughed tiredly, sniffled again, and hissed when he shifted onto his bruised ass. “Ah, jeez. Well, what about you, Professor?” He groped between the Engineer’s thighs. 

The Engineer thought he should be angry. He should punish the stupid brat for being so bold, but he found himself grinning instead. It was just like the Scout to take a beating and go running back in again. 

He unbuckled his overalls and took them down, and as the Scout maneuvered himself between the Engineer’s knees, the two exchanged crooked smirks. 

"Let’s see what you can do, boy," the Engineer said while the Scout hooked long fingers into the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts. The Scout yanked the shorts and overalls over the Engineer’s boots, and ran his wrapped hands over the man’s thick thighs. 

"I won’t letcha down, Teach," he answered, bucktoothed grin dissolving when he leaned forward and licked the Engineer balls to tip. His eyes were still bloodshot from crying. The Engineer ran a few fingertips over the Scout’s cheek, and fisted his hand in the runner’s short hair. 

"Hmmn," the Scout said around the Engineer’s tip, flicking his eyes up and smiling wickedly. His tongue pressed into the slit and quested under the foreskin while his fingers wrapped around the base. The Engineer forced him down with the grip in his hair.

"How much can you take?" the Engineer muttered, pressing the Scout’s head down further and further. He just about hit the back of the Scout’s throat, and felt the runner’s tongue lashing against his shaft, when the boy sniffled, snorted, choked and pulled off, coughing. 

"Jeez, sorry ‘bout that. I’m all congested now. Couldn’t breathe. Anyway…" He took a deep breath and dove back in, but the Engineer couldn’t bring himself to expect subtlety from the brash little hooligan, nor could he find it in himself to care too much when the Scout was bobbing his head and sucking hard and fast, his tongue flickering around the head and his teeth scraping every now and again. He didn’t mind the slight pain. Actually, he rather liked it. He ran his fingers through the Scout’s hair, and felt the appreciative moan that bubbled up around his cock, up out of the Scout’s chest to hum through his wide-stretched lips. 

"That’s it, just like that. You like this, doncha boy?" 

The Scout hummed earnestly again, eyes closed, hands unable to keep still on the Engineer’s flesh. 

"When I finish, you gonna swallow it all down, just like you did your own?"

Another deep, hearty moan was his answer. 

"Yeah, I just bet you are. Gonna love it too, sore and full of spunk. Aintcha."

The Scout nodded with just the tip in his mouth, and pushed back down again, groaning, wanting. 

"Or maybe I should paint yer face with it, rub it in and let you wear it around, huh?"

The Scout made a pleading noise in his throat that vibrated through the Engineer’s cock, fingers twitching.

"Wear my spunk on yer face and my bruises on your ass?" 

The Scout moaned long, sucking in breaths around the Engineer’s cock, snuffling and fighting his stuffy nose. 

"You wanna do this thing with me, yer gonna be mine, understand that? Yer gonna wear those bruises like a goddamn badge of honor.”

"Aw, yeah, Engie!" the Scout breathed, before licking his way down again.

"That’s right. You wanted this, didncha? You happy now you’ve got it?"

The Scout’s sustained moan brought Engie close, and he gripped the Scout’s hair and mumbled, “Good. I like to take care’a what’s mine,” before, despite his promises, he finished down the Scout’s throat. 

He groaned through his climax, holding the Scout down, and when he let go, the Scout reeled back, gasping for breath and wiping his nose, but smiling all the same. 

He tried to stand and pull up his trousers, and grimaced when the waistband scraped his tender flesh. The Engineer toed out of his boots and fished for another pair of boxer shorts. 

"So uh, did your wife do stuff like that with you?" the Scout asked, looking around the room again and bouncing on his heels.

"That ain’t any of your business, boy," the Engineer growled without turning. 

"Huh. Well. Okay," the Scout answered, swinging his arms. "So, like, uh…" 

"Yeah, g’wan, git outta here," the Engineer answered, pulling his shirt over his head and preparing his bed for sleep.

"Yeah, okay, thanks. Um—" He darted in and pecked the Engineer on the cheek, then zipped away, glancing back only at the door to mumble a quick, "See ya, Engie," before the clatter of his feet took him down the hall and gone. 

The Engineer chuckled and shook his head. Darn brat would need at least twenty strokes for doing that without asking.

He turned down his sheets and moved slowly to his desk. The gold band sat on the corner, shining dimly in the low light. Sliding the ring onto his finger, the Engineer began a letter to the pretty lady in the photographs. 

"My Darling Irene," he wrote. "Things are progressing well here in the oil fields." He tapped his pen against the desk. The words crawled across the page, mostly lies, interspersed with genuine questions about the children. When the clock struck eleven, he’d filled two pages, front and back. He closed the letter as he usually did: "As always, your loving husband." 

The ring dug into his skin, sensitive from his earlier activities. He removed it, and turned out the light.

**Author's Note:**

> I keep writing these fics in which Scout has a thing for someone on the team, and has to confess why, with varying results. It’s like meditations on a theme or something. Hope y’all don’t think I’m some kind of one-trick pony. Of porn. 
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I work in a gift shop, so all day long I see children throwing tantrums. The other day I thought to myself, “Being a parent must really desensitize you to tears,” and then (wibbly wobbly) and then this fic happened. I… Don’t know. I guess I wanted to write a thing in which the Engineer really IS ‘wolverine mean’…? 
> 
> Hope y’all enjoyed, anyhow. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr for more fic. c:


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